Kebab Wars: The Empire Strikes Back

Driving through the bubble for the first time, I remember twisting around in my seat searching for some form of familiarity. Where were my Golden Arches, my Colonel Sanders? I couldn’t bring myself to believe the existence of a place so pretentious that it deprived the locals of an opportunity to be “Lovin’ It”. After my first week, I was convinced that late night post-party cravings could only be satisfied with stale vending machine crisps. Doritos, baby I love you, but three packets later you start to taste like sawdust and regret.

Then the day of my initiation arrived, the rite of passage into the self-consciously ironic world of St Andrews gastronomy. I mean we’re too good for McDonalds but a kebab shop nestled in an alleyway amidst a welcoming party of dumpsters is perfectly fine. It was dodgy, messy, and gave me that same feeling of satisfied shame that I thought only a Big Mac could consistently deliver.

It wasn’t long before I crossed enemy lines and found myself staring at the patchwork wall at Dervish. I had been ‘derved’, as someone kindly summed up for me. This was the upgrade, an all-new kebab dining experience that didn’t involve street benches and a scramble for napkins before heading to the after party. Only recently did I notice the ‘specials board’ on the side of the door and saw that they advertised having ‘probably the best coffee in town’. I loved their confidence, but then the dish of muffins and scones appeared out of nowhere and it all seemed a bit ostentatious. I mean, kebab shops are kebab shops. There is no point having tea and scones in a place where you expect numbers to be shouted out every 45 seconds.  And to be perfectly frank, a world where there is no periodic yelling and cheesy club tunes blaring in the background isn’t a world I want to live in.

The other night I flexed my journalistic muscles and asked one of the Dervish men, “What makes you better than Empire?” He laughed at me like I was an idiot then casually replied, “We are more spatial.” They are definitely spacious. It is just big enough to be pushed around in a Tesco trolley, as someone selflessly demonstrated the other day.

They also have a baby changing facility in the bathroom just in case any mothers on the lash with their babies in tow need to stop for a quick nappy change. Despite the failed attempt at being a family restaurant, I must admit that the food in Dervish is significantly better than Empire. And as much as I respect Empire for staying true to the kebab shop blueprint (counter, white tiles and blindingly bright menu boards), Dervish drown their pizza in only one pint of grease as opposed to two. They also serve falafel that is so delicious it almost makes me consider going in the day time.

Nevertheless, looking back to my first night at Empire, I remember being actually impressed. I thought I was going to end up throwing myself off the cliffs of a town where girls eat an almond a day in an attempt to marry royalty. I remember how relieved I was to see them stuff their faces with chips at 2:00am then pole-dance on the lamppost next to the bus stop.

While I’m sitting on a bench contemplating this and eating my ‘OWDER THIRRRTY SEX’, someone in our group remarks, “How did they even get here? They’re from the Middle East right? So, how far did they have to travel to randomly set up a kebab shop in Scotland? Like, just think about that for a second.” I wanted to correct him and tell him that 1) you’re not being deep, just stupid, 2) they’re from Turkey which is in EUROPE, and 3) a kebab shop in a student town is not trippy and far-fetched but commonplace and even essential.

I decided I was too hungry to even bother lecturing this kid. Before tossing another chip into my mouth I simply reply, “It’s not weird, it’s fucking genius.”

Written by Yousra Elbagir, standpoint writer